Where I am at right now…
March 28, 2026
I didn’t expect to be writing this kind of update. Not because I don’t have anything to say—but because most days, I’m just trying to get through them.
Lately, life has been this strange mix of progress and pause. I’m working on my book, When the Healer Breaks, editing chapters and reliving moments I didn’t expect to revisit this deeply. Some days it feels empowering, like I’m finally putting meaning to everything I’ve been through. Other days, it feels like I’m reopening things I haven’t fully healed from.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I got another diagnosis—fibromyalgia.
It wasn’t shocking. I think part of me already knew. But hearing it out loud still lands in a way you can’t really prepare for. Because a diagnosis doesn’t just give you answers—it also quietly takes things from you.
Chronic pain isn’t loud most of the time. It’s not big, dramatic moments. It’s quiet. Constant. A thousand small negotiations no one else hears. How much energy do I have today? What can I push through? What will it cost me later if I do?
Some days I feel almost normal, and I let myself believe maybe I’m turning a corner. And then the next day reminds me it doesn’t work like that.
There’s also this unspoken pressure to keep going. To still show up. To still function. To still be the version of yourself people expect. And I am trying. I’m writing. I’m parenting. I’m building something meaningful out of all of this.
But I’m also cancelling plans. Resting more than I want to admit. Relearning what “productive” even means. It’s this constant balancing act between who I was and who I am now.
That’s really where I am—not at the beginning anymore, but not on the other side of it either. Just… in it. Living in that space where nothing is fully broken, but nothing is fully okay either, and learning how to exist there.
Working on my book has been its own kind of therapy and challenge. It’s forcing me to slow down and actually feel things I lived through on autopilot. Sometimes that’s healing. Sometimes it’s exhausting. But it also feels important, because there are so many parts of this experience people don’t see, don’t understand, or don’t talk about—and I want to.
Right now, I’m not waiting until I feel better. I’m not waiting until everything makes sense. I’m just showing up as I am. Some days that looks strong. Some days it looks like survival.
Both count.
And maybe that’s the part worth sharing—not the version of the story where everything is tied up neatly, but the one where I’m still in the middle of it, figuring it out as I go.